


All your friends are gone

by dropshipheroes



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Missing Scene, Pre-Relationship, post 2x05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 01:26:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3310688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dropshipheroes/pseuds/dropshipheroes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tell me about him," he says before he can overthink it. "All the kids, tell me how they were before you left."</p><p>Bellamy and Clarke talk about their people in Mount Weather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All your friends are gone

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in those two days between 2x05 and 2x06, a missing scene of sorts, thanks to Bellamy's line about Clarke telling him about Jasper and Maya. Title is from the poem _Snow and Dirty Rain_ by Richard Siken, which you should all go read in full if you haven't yet because every time I do I am blown away with how well if fits my feelings about this stupid fictional world and the characters in it that have swallowed me whole.

It’s been almost 12 hours since they returned to Camp Jaha with Finn and Murphy in tow, handing the boys off to the guards but keeping their guns this time, and Bellamy thinks they might as well have turned Clarke over too for as little as he’s seen her. She’s been locked up in a room in the Ark with her mom for hours and it sits wrong under his skin, not just knowing she’s in a tiny gray box somewhere but that he can’t get eyes on her while she is. 

Ever since she threw herself into his arms nearly 3 days ago she’s hardly been out of his sight once and he’d honestly prefer to keep it that way, nearly as much as he’d prefer not to talk about _why_ it is so important to him. If pressed he’d probably say something about how she’s his co-leader, how he’s just glad she’s not dead, maybe even something about her having the only map of Mount Weather floating around in that pretty head of hers. The truth though is much simpler than that. Having her close makes him feel a little less alone.

So yeah, he’s been pacing outside the Ark for hours at a time sending heated glares at anyone besides O or Raven who dares to get too close, but he’d probably punch you in the face if you mentioned it. He’s just about to get over his own dislike for small, enclosed spaces and head into the maze of metal to try and track her down himself - even if he has to point a gun at another chancellor to do it - but luckily she stumbles out the doorway before it comes to that and he can feel some of the tension bleeding out of him as his shoulders relax and his grip on the gun at his side goes slack.

She spots him almost as soon as he sees her, and even manages a half smile for him though she looks mostly dead on her feet. He jogs forward to meet her, finding himself too impatient to even wait the few seconds it would take her to reach him, and when he gets close he can see that the tiredness extends to her eyes, bloodshot and world weary, heavy from more than just the long march and endless questioning. When he looks at her he sees Finn again, gun in hand as he stumbled toward her with those empty eyes, and he has to grit his teeth against the shudder that wants to run through him. She may be tired but he’s pretty sure sleep is the last thing on her mind.

“Hey,” he says, catching her attention back from the memories she’s started to slip into as well, “How about we get a drink?”

Clarke smiles again, the one that doesn’t reach her eyes, but nods firmly with enough thankfulness in her expression to make him feel guilty for only being able to offer this. When she falls into step beside him the knot in his chest loosens a little further and he feels like he can finally take a real breath, tries very hard not to dwell on what it means that he’s only able to do it now that she is back by his side. _Where she belongs_ his mind supplies and he almost trips over the stutter in his step at the thought. She reaches out and puts a gentle hand against his arm to steady him, concern flooding her features as she looks him over for signs of some injury she might have missed. That more than anything brings him back to himself, because if anyone needs steadying or concern right now it shouldn’t be him.

When they get to the outdoor tables that have been set up around the Ark’s version of a still he puts a hand against her back to guide her to a table along the outer edges and says, “Sit, I’ll get us that drink.” Clarke goes without argument, another empty curl of her lips for him that makes him ache to see some real happiness on her face again.

The guy working at the makeshift counter eyes him as he approaches, shooting a nervous glance at Clarke when Bellamy asks for two drinks. Bellamy wonders if he’s more worried about serving the chancellor’s daughter alcohol or about the things he’s heard about Clarke herself. Bellamy may not have been in this camp long, but even he’s heard the whispers about her bloody return, covered in mud and wearing the clothes of the grounders with ghosts in her eyes. The guy only hesitates for a moment before pouring out the drinks though so Bellamy doesn’t have to argue with him, which is probably a good thing even if he sometimes thinks yelling at someone might help with the ghosts in his own head.

Clarke is sitting quietly in her chair when he returns, hands splayed out across the metal tabletop and staring at her fingers with her mind a million miles away. She startles a little when he sets the cup in front of her, but he pretends not to notice and grins at her like everything is fine. Like this is fucking Unity Day all over again or something, and he’s just trying to get her to have a good time. _You deserve it_ he thinks, hears her voice echo _you deserve it too_ , but he shakes the memories from his mind before he sits across from her.

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” she says almost as soon as he sits, fingers wrapping around the cup in front of her and dragging it toward her chest defensively. She’s looking at him from the corner of her eye, like meeting his gaze head on might be too dangerous.

Bellamy shrugs, tries to make his posture and expression as relaxed as possible. “Fine by me,” he tells her and takes a sip to cover the smile that threatens when she glares at him suspiciously. It is entirely too adorable a look for someone with that much blood on their hands, but there it is.

Clarke sips slowly from her cup and he can tell she still doesn’t trust that he won’t push her on this. But he gets it, he does, he isn’t sure _he’s_ ready to talk about what they saw – to talk about all the mistakes along the way that led them there. It feels too big, too full of regret, and he has had enough regret in his life these past two weeks. Right now he just wants another moment to enjoy the fact that he is sitting here with her, his sister somewhere safe in camp too, and that they are all of them alive. 

When Clarke grimaces at the taste of the moonshine in her cup he doesn’t bother to hide his smirk. “Makes you miss Monty even more huh?” he asks and she nods quickly, grimacing as she takes another swallow.

“Just another reason to get him back as soon as possible,” she agrees, then sobers with the reminder of where they need to get him back from. 

She’s told Bellamy a little about the Mountain, the broad strokes at least. She’s given him a head count of the survivors, told him about the sinister calm that seemed to pervade the place and set her teeth on edge, and the realization of the truth behind that feeling in the horrors she found behind the infirmary doors. He’s heard her story, but they haven’t really talked much about the others still trapped there. At first he’d thought maybe that was for the best – maybe they needed to focus on getting their people out and missing them wouldn’t help with that – but now he isn’t so sure. Maybe they both need the reminder, actually, of why they are doing this at all.

“Tell me about him,” he says before he can overthink it.

Clarke sets her drink down and tilts her head at him curiously. “Monty?”

Bellamy shrugs. “Yeah, Monty, Miller, Jasper. All the kids. Tell me how they were before you left.”

Her shoulders go tense at that and he knows already that she’s feeling guilty about leaving them behind. He reaches across the table and puts a hand over her arm, over the thin red scar there that he knows the story of too, steadying her this time. “Hey, Clarke, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s good that you left, it’s what’s going to save them. I just wanted to hear about them is all, the good stuff.”

She relaxes a little at his words and he starts to pull his fingers away but she puts her other hand on top of his before he can and holds him there. It surprises him but not in a bad way, not really. There’s a little flush of warmth in his chest at her touch, at being connected like this and it feels good, not exactly comforting but close to it, familiar maybe. Necessary. Though when she became something necessary to him he doesn’t know.

“What do you want to know?” she asks him softly but without any guilt in her voice this time which is good enough.

The answer is _everything_ but he figures she might work better with specifics right now so he says, “What do they look like all cleaned up? I’m not sure I’d recognize any of us without at least three layers of dirt over everything.”

That makes her laugh and it feels like a victory. “They look good,” she tells him, and when her eyes go faraway this time there is still light in them. “Younger though, somehow. Most of the girls were swooning over real shampoo for the first few days we were there, though I’m pretty sure I saw Monty crying over a bottle of the stuff too. Oh! And Miller stopped shaving, he’s got this whole beard thing going on now that he’s pretty proud of.” 

She smirks at him and Bellamy laughs, trying to picture it. “I bet he is.”

“He misses his beanie though,” Clarke continues. “I’m not sure if they burned our clothes or just tossed them down one of the mine shafts but they put us all in new outfits and beanies were definitely not included.”

“What was that like?” he asks to keep her talking, though he’s curious too.

She looks down at the clothes she’s wearing now before answering. “Strange, I guess. We all smelled better at least.” That gets another smile from them both. “It’s weird,” she continues though after a moment, “You’d think after spending two months without even a change of underwear I’d be more happy about having clean clothes, but mostly I just felt like they were erasing what made me _me_ , you know?”

Bellamy’s not sure he does know, because there are days he’s pretty sure he’d kill a man for a fresh pair of socks, but he nods thoughtfully anyway. Clarke huffs a little in frustration, clearly seeing through him, and tries to explain. “They put me in these white pants and pink sweaters, and everything was soft and feminine and designed for leisure, and most of it was even comfortable which somehow made it worse. Because that isn’t who I am anymore. I’m not soft, I’m not comfortable, and as much as I wish we weren’t always fighting for our lives that’s what Earth _is_. I may hate that but I don’t hate what I’ve become in the face of it.”

And _that_ Bellamy understands. It’s something he thinks most of the kids who came down with them would understand actually, which is why he was so surprised to hear that most of them hadn’t wanted Clarke to be right about Mount Weather. They’ve become warriors down here, all of them, and as much as he looks forward to a hypothetical day when they all get to lay down their arms he wouldn’t want the truth of what they’ve become stripped from him either. 

Clarke must see the understanding on his face because her shoulders slump a little in relief at having explained it adequately. “I get it,” Bellamy tells her, just to make sure, “And I bet they aren’t thinking you’re soft anymore.”

“Probably not,” she agrees, a little well-earned pride in her voice at that.

The moment threatens to take a down turn though when he sees the shadows of her escape creeping back into her eyes, so he puts on his most teasing tone and adds, “Though when we take the bastards out, I might not say no to a few pink sweaters myself.”

That gets her to laugh, brings her back to the present, to him, and he’s grateful. “Okay, we’ll keep a few of the sweaters,” she agrees with a grin. Her eyes light up then and she adds, “Oh, and chocolate, we can keep the chocolate too.”

There’s a dreaminess in her voice that makes him wish he could taste what she’s imagining. Chocolate had been a distant concept on the Ark, and they aren’t exactly swimming in cacao beans down here on Earth, but from the look on Clarke’s face it is something to be savored. “That good huh?” he asks and she nods enthusiastically.

“I feel terrible for saying it, because everything about that place feels evil, but the _food_ Bellamy, oh my god. Half the kids made themselves sick those first few days just from eating too much of it after our twig and berry diet of these last few months.”

“Hey now, I seem to remember providing plenty of meat too,” he argues, only mostly joking. The truth is it does make him feel a jealous sort of twinge in his chest, this implication that what they had been able to provide wasn’t good enough. Clarke smiles at him appeasingly though which goes a long way towards soothing it.

“You did,” she agrees, “You kept us all alive and stronger than we would have been without you.”

He grunts noncommittally at that, still not comfortable with the kind of praise she had started to pile on him near the end. “I bet that’s part of why they wanted to stay,” he says, mostly to distract her from the way she’s looking at him, like he’s someone to be relied upon, like he’s a leader. He likes that look too much even if it does make him squirm so it’s probably best she doesn’t give it to him too often. “The food, I mean. It’d be pretty hard to walk away from the promise of a full belly.”

Clarke nods and sighs. “I think so many of them were just tired you know? Tired and scared.”

“Like Jasper,” he says, lilting it up like a question though it isn’t really. Clarke’s told him a little about Jasper, about his insistence that she was seeing monsters where there were none and the guilt and fear she’d felt at not believing him. Bellamy knows she doesn’t blame the boy for it though, and he doesn’t either, really. Of all of them Jasper has had more reason than most to fear the ground given his experiences on it.

She nods again. “Like Jasper.” Her eyes go distant for a minute and when she comes back again she’s smiling a little. “Though he might have also been swayed in his desire to stay by something more than his stomach.”

“Oh yeah?” Bellamy asks, grinning like a fool at the twinkle in her eyes and trying not to notice how she’s basically taken his hand in her own by now, because if he notices he might have to make himself pull away for both their sakes.

“Yeah,” Clarke grins. “Jasper got himself an admirer in there, this girl named Maya.”

“You mean Maya the girl whose throat you almost slit, that Maya?” he asks, hoping the teasing note in his tone carries through to her and doesn’t make her sink back into guilt and bad memories. Luckily it seems to work because while Clarke seems a little embarrassed she also looks fiercely defiant and Bellamy’s always thought that was an exceptionally good look on her.

“Yes that Maya,” she agrees imperiously, rolling her eyes at him when he grins. “She was terrified of me, but you know Jasper, he’s more puppy than boy. I think it appealed to her. She followed him everywhere, and it definitely was not a one sided infatuation. I knew Jasper could ramble, but Bellamy _every single night_ in the dorms we all had to listen to him talk about ‘Maya this’ and ‘Maya that’,” she laughs and shakes her head, squeezing his hand in hers almost subconsciously. “I thought Miller was gonna kill him for sure if he didn’t shut up.”

Bellamy laughs too, knowing all too well what that would have looked like back at their camp. “You stopped him, I’m assuming.”

Clarke sighs dramatically. “Some days I didn’t want to, believe me. A little longer in there and I might have been as desperate to shut Jas up myself.” 

They sit with their thoughts after that for a while, both lost in different times though Bellamy wonders if she is thinking of the Mount Weather dorms or if like him she is remembering their nights back at the drop ship camp. She gives him a look, something somber and meaningful, that makes him think it is probably the latter, and takes another drink from her cup, finishing it off. When she finally drops his hand, pulling both of hers back into her lap, Bellamy swallows the rest of his moonshine too, hoping his grimace at the taste hides the disappointment he feels at the loss of her touch.

“I should get some sleep,” she says after another moment, not quite meeting his eyes anymore, and while he knows her words are the truth he is also pretty sure she’s just using this as a way to be done talking for now.

“Where are you staying?” he asks.

Clarke looks surprised at the question and he realizes she hasn’t considered that yet. She’s only ever been in medical since she arrived at the camp, so probably hasn’t even thought about staking out a tent or a room. “With my mother, I guess,” she says sounding less than thrilled at the idea.

He should leave it at that, he knows. Clarke is probably better off with her mom, and it certainly isn’t his business where she wants to sleep these days. And yet that persistent need to have her in his sight still lingers, and his hand is still warm where she held it, so instead he says, “You can stay with O and me, if you want.”

As soon as the words are out he wants to take them back, feeling too exposed and knowing she’s going to turn him down which will make it worse than if he never offered at all. He clears his throat and stares down at the empty cup in his hands so as not to have to meet her eyes, and waits for her to confirm his thoughts. But because she’s Clarke, who never stops surprising him, instead she just says, “Okay.”

He looks up sharply but her expression is carefully blank again, though he can’t tell whether that is from exhaustion or if she’s schooled it that way on purpose. It bothers him a little that he isn’t sure which, he’s gotten so used to reading her micro expressions that it is always disconcerting to run up against one he can’t interpret. Not that it matters much, because whatever is going on inside her head he is kind of ridiculously relieved that he doesn’t have to watch her walk away yet.

“Okay,” he repeats, pushing back his chair to stand. She follows suit, matching his stride as they walk away leaving their empty cups behind.

Bellamy’s tent is set up on the far edge of camp, near Raven’s gate, and it’s a pretty shoddy thing even by the low standards they’d gotten used to those first weeks on Earth. He and O have pieced it together from a scrap pile of material left outside the Ark, both of them too proud to ask the chancellor or guards for anything more. Luckily they both learned quick stitches from their mother, as well as how to work with what they have in front of them, so while the covering is patchwork it is solid at least, enough to keep out most of the wind.

Clarke doesn’t comment on the appearance, just smiles at him wearily when he holds the flap aside for her and shuffles in. Most of the floor space is taken up with the two piles of blankets and furs they’ve compiled (again from castoffs, and maybe a little pilfering of the supply closet. After a year of janitor duty Bellamy knows how to get around the Ark unseen after all, even wrecked as it is). 

Clarke hesitates for a moment and Bellamy is suddenly painfully aware of the fact that there are two beds now for three people, but she surprises him when instead of balking she toes off her boots and shrugs out of her coat before settling on the blanket pile he’s claimed as his own. He has just one weak moment of wondering if it means something that she’s instinctually chosen his bed, but he pushes that away quickly. Thoughts like that, hope like that, has no place here, not now. Not when what Clarke needs is rest.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll get some more blankets for us,” he says quietly, eyes averted as she slides under the covers and curls into a ball on one side of the bedding even though there is nothing risqué about her movements at all. It still feels intrusive, somehow, to watch her.

She shrugs, shoulders lifting the blankets a little with their movement. “’I’m not that big, we can share,” she says and he has to swallow past the lump that puts in his throat. There is no innuendo in her voice, nothing but exhaustion and maybe a little loneliness, and he finds he cannot argue with her even though it feels dangerous not to.

The truth is he is mostly helpless against her, has been for longer than is probably wise to think about, so he simply nods sharply and bends to unlace his own boots. It isn’t that late, Octavia is still pacing around the edges of the camp and he should probably check on her too at some point, but right now Clarke is looking like she is barely holding on to herself and he doesn’t really want to leave her alone. When he slides in next to her she closes the careful inch of space he leaves between them almost immediately, her hand close enough that he can feel her fingertips against his arm and her head tilted so that it is _almost_ resting on his shoulder. They are hardly touching at all and yet it feels intimate in a way that is entirely new.

Bellamy tries to lay still, tries to keep his breathing soft and even and his body relaxed. Clarke’s own tension seeps out of her slowly as the minutes tick by and he is pretty sure she’s asleep or close to it when she speaks again.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, her words as hushed and close as her body. Her fingers press against his arm a little tighter for a moment and Bellamy’s own voice is more strained than he would like when he answers.

“For what?”

“For helping me remember what it is we’re fighting for,” she tells him, echoing back almost word for word his thoughts from earlier. That is how it is between them sometimes though, so in tune it scares him a little. He nods, not trusting his voice again, and turns just a bit so that her fingers slide down his arm to tangle with his own instead.

He feels her smile more than sees it in the dark. “Remind me to tell you about Harper and the high heels tomorrow,” she tells him softly, voice drifting closer to sleep. The sentence is bizarre enough that he kind of wants to hear the story now, but she’s a warm weight at his side, her hand tucked tightly into his own, and she’s safe and whole and here, which is enough for now. He can wait for the story.

“Sweet dreams, Clarke,” he whispers back instead. He hopes she finds them.


End file.
